


Clover and Shadows

by ErinPtah



Series: The Pronoun Ninja Diaries [3]
Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst, First Time, Identity Porn, Multi, Music Creation, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU/variation on I'll Be That Girl. Not only is Stephen MtF, Charlene is FtM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Builds around [the song Stephen wrote for Charlene in the 80s](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/59061/february-09-2006/charlene--i-m-right-behind-you-). Extras (art, mixes, fanworks) can be found on [the DW index page](http://ptahrrific.dreamwidth.org/102030.html).

The morning after the staff party, Jon scrounged up coffee and aspirin, waited as long as he could stand, then dialed.

Judging by the raspy voice on the other end, Stephen hadn't even made it to the coffee stage yet. "Hngh? Whozzere?"

"Hi, Stephen? It's me. Listen, about last night...."

At once Stephen snapped to attention. "You're absolutely right. It was a horrible idea, and should never ever happen again, and if we don't say another word about it as long as we live, that will be A-okay with me."

"It wasn't a horrible idea," protested Jon.

"What?"

"You ran out too fast for me to tell you. I liked it. And I was thinking, if you were free this weekend, we could do it again — only sober, this time — and maybe go a little farther, while we're at it—"

"Oh, _sure_ , Jon!" interrupted Stephen. "It's always about you, isn't it? What _you_ like, what _you_ want, how _your_ asthma is being triggered by my scented candles...."

"Stephen, I—"

"No!" yelped Stephen, more than a little hysterically. "Leave me out of your sick fantasies, Stewart, or I'll report you for sexual harassment. Again!"

The line went dead.

"But _you_ kissed _me_ ," said Jon helplessly to the darkened phone.

"No, it's okay," calls Charlene down the stairs, hand on the doorknob. "I just have to get—"

The end of the sentence withers and dies as the scene in the bedroom unfolds itself.

Charlene almost screams. But it's not a robber or an axe murderer, it's — Charlene has to do a double take, but sure enough — it's just Stephen, the bratty cousin who cheats at checkers and once got run up the flagpole by the football team for making the mistake of paying too much attention to _Hamlet_.

If there's anyone Charlene can take, it's this kid.

A lunge and a quick twist and it's over, Stephen pinned on the bed with arms locked in place, while Charlene hisses, "What are you doing in my room?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Stephen has muscles, but doesn't even try to use them; Charlene barely has to put in any effort to keep the upper hand. "Please, just let me go, I'll never try to be a girl again—"

Charlene's heart skips a beat. "What do you mean, 'try to be a girl'?"

"Nothing!" gasps Stephen. "Nothing, I swear, just let me go—"

"Shut up," snaps Charlene, head buzzing, as if some lock inside it has just been smashed open and unleashed a whole swarm of bumblebees.

Stephen shuts up and lies still, or as still as a person can be when fighting for shallow gasps of air.

"Get out of here," hisses Charlene at last, jumping back and letting the captive go. "And meet me in the orchard Friday after school." Then, before Stephen can make any false promises: "If you skip out I'll send Papa after you with his shotgun."

It feels like a desperately cowardly thing to say, but Charlene can't afford to take chances. Not with this.

Speak of the devil: "You okay up there, pumpkin?" calls a deep voice from the base of the stairs.

"Fine, Papa!" replies Charlene in an artificial trill. "I have to fix my makeup, then I'll be right down!"

Stephen, who has been backing towards the window, stops to gape, brown eyes wide with confusion.

"Get _going_ ," hisses Charlene, jabbing a finger towards the clouds.

It does the trick: Stephen shimmies down the big tree next to the house in what seems like seconds flat.

While turning back to the mirror — had to get cleaned up enough that nobody, not Papa or Mama and definitely not the boy at the door with a dozen roses, could guess what just happened — Charlene spots a pair of pantyhose, sprawled like a broken bird in the middle of the floor.

"You didn't need to follow me all the way here," grumbled Stephen as they crossed the hotel lobby.

"Parties aren't really my thing," replied Jon lightly. (Of course he could be casual about it. _He_ had spent the whole time getting congratulated on his two new Emmys.) "And I wanted to make sure you got back safe."

His hand rested on the small of Stephen's back, which was of course completely unnecessary, but if it made him feel better, Stephen figured it couldn't hurt to allow it. Just this once. "'M not _that_ drunk, though."

"Stephen, your voice is going through about an octave a sentence."

"Is _not!_ " insisted Stephen, tripping over the threshold of the elevator (well, whose idea had it been to make the stupid thing so distractingly shiny?) and tumbling into Jon's arms.

Jon caught his breath, but he didn't push Stephen away — and, mercifully, didn't try to press things farther either, letting Stephen have a few moments to enjoy the _right right right_ in the way they fit together without having to worry about the _wrong wrong wrong_ that was—

_Shake it off, Col-bert! You're drunk, you're not thinking, you'll slip up, don't let yourself ruin everything after all these years, get away now—_

"You smell nice," Stephen announced, voice muffled against the crook of Jon's neck.

Jon snorted, the vibration sending a little jolt through both of them. "That would be the captivating scent of Eau de Hotel Shampoo."

_Lilacs._

"Could've been. I wasn't paying that much attention."

_You said it out loud? Idiot, idiot, idiot...._

"Not now, Sweetness," hissed Stephen desperately.

"Sweetness?" repeated Jon, his grip on Stephen tightening. "Don't tell me you brought your gun!"

The elevator dinged to a stop, and Stephen yanked away as it hummed open. "'S my floor."

Jon threw his arm forward, keeping the doors from closing, as Stephen backed hurriedly out onto the lush red-and-gold carpet. "Stephen, please—" he stammered, looking poised to lunge across the hall. "Just swear to me you won't do anything stupid if I leave you alone—"

_You won't be alone._

"I don't have my gun, Jon." _She_ wasn't the gun at all, but Jon didn't need to know that. "I'll see you tomorrow."

With a slow nod Jon stepped back. "Good night, Stephen," he said quietly, as the doors slid together in front of his still-anxious eyes.

 _It's better this way,_ murmured the voice in Stephen's head.

Didn't Jon understand yet? Stephen was _never_ alone.

As complaints started to hit a critical mass, Jon called Stephen over to his office. Serious matters were best dealt with on his home turf.

"You can't keep harassing this woman on-air, Stephen," he said sternly. "It's only a matter of time before we hear from her lawyers, we're already hearing from women's rights groups...and even if we weren't, you shouldn't be doing it in the first place."

"You don't understand, Jon," growled Stephen, every hackle raised. "It's not what you think."

"Then you'd better tell me what it _is_ ," countered Jon. "And make it good. You do realize that stalking is a big deal, right? This isn't—"

He broke off.

Stephen's eyes had misted over. Jon had seen plenty of crocodile tears in those eyes, but the fake kind had never been this subtle. Nor had his friend ever addressed him in a voice this shaky.

"Charlene was...." Stephen sucked in a breath between gritted teeth. "She was the only person who ever understood me."

Stephen is sitting back against the trunk of a tree, in the middle of yet another prayer that Charlene will have forgotten the whole thing, when a shadow falls across the grass.

"Do you really want to be a girl?"

"Don't be stupid," snaps Stephen. "I'm a guy. Anyone can see that."

(Say it enough, and maybe that short circuit will finally stop firing off sparks in Stephen's mind. Like these bursts of disappointment in quick red-hot succession: the visitor isn't wearing a flowing skirt, or a flush of lipstick, or pearl drops hanging from pink-shell ears, or any of the other things Stephen wishes — no, no, does _not_ wish, are you listening, not not _not_ —)

"Well — here, anyway," replies Charlene shortly, thrusting something into Stephen's hand.

It's a folded-over pair of pantyhose.

Stephen cradles the slightly rough material between both palms while Charlene circles the tree and sits, all business, on the far side. They can't see each other now, but Stephen can imagine those fair shoulders braced against the rough bark, can picture the late-afternoon shadow falling over Charlene's body as it reaches out towards the horizon.

"I'd give you the rest of it if I could," Charlene confesses, and there's a shadow over the words too.

From there it proceeds in mostly in stolen moments behind closed doors.

It's Charlene slouching, hair tied out of the way under a baseball cap, while Stephen experimentally slides on a pair of heels. It's Stephen coming back from the sporting goods store and presenting Charlene with an Ace bandage, in return for a few precious pairs of rhinestone clip-on earrings — each gift stored in the giver's room until it can be safely claimed.

It's a comedy, when Stephen first tries to put on lipstick and Charlene guffaws hard enough to fall out of the chair before offering a hand. It's a tragedy, when Charlene needs to shout and Stephen needs to cry and they crash together in a bedroom once they've double-checked the locks, pouring furious murmurs and strangled sobs into the only ears that will listen.

It's Stephen daring to swing her hips when she knows nobody's looking, and Charlene practicing his swagger in front of his full-length mirror, and both of them counting the days until graduation.

They drive for a good hour and a half under the overbright full moon before pulling over onto a narrow strip of grass and clambering out of the pickup.

Neither one likes changing in public. Even the crickets seem like too much of an audience.

Charlene deliberately wore his loosest clothing; he can't go braless (it only leaves his breasts sore and more intrusive than ever), but the rest gets tossed in the bed of the pickup for Stephen to fish out. His hips turn out to be just wide enough to hold Stephen's roomy boxers in place.

Stephen makes a futile attempt to squeeze her legs into pantyhose (they've been in her pocket almost every day these last few weeks, a sheer security blanket in miniature), nearly tearing up when they don't fit. Charlene hisses at her to pick up the pace, so she grabs the sundress and cardigan and scrambles awkwardly into them as fast as she can.

It's a sloppy switch and it'll have to be undone before they reach the bus station, but for the moment it feels like they can breathe again.

They're ten minutes down the road when Stephen realizes her pockets are empty.

"We're not turning around," snaps Charlene, knuckles white around the wheel. "We'd never find the place again anyway."

"Charlene, _please_ —"

"Damnit, Stephen, I brought other pantyhose!"

Stephen cowers in her seat and doesn't reply.

"It's my job to protect you now," adds Charlene gruffly, as the pickup breaks free from the trees and rattles out across a bridge, the river below them glittering with silver. "Let me do that."

Not until they're back on land does Stephen whisper, "Okay."

Jon tried to speak gently. "You know that's what all stalkers say."

"All stalkers aren't me."

"Stephen, I want to be on your side, here. But if there's something else to this, I can't protect you unless I know what—"

Stephen stood up so abruptly that it nearly knocked the chair over. "I don't need your _protection_. I'll take care of myself."

In an instant, Jon was on his own feet. "You can't just brush this off!" he exclaimed, as his visitor strode towards the door. "The way you're treating Charlene is—"

"Charlene's dead, Jon!"

Jon sank back into his seat, cold down to his bones.

"She's dead," repeated Stephen more quietly, gripping the doorjamb for support. "It doesn't matter how I treat her anymore."


	2. Chapter 2

Stephen was in makeup, eyebrows getting their daily dose of sculpting from a highly trained professional, when Jon knocked on the door. "Hi, Nadia. Can I have the room for a minute?"

"What do you want, Jon?" demanded Stephen when the stylist had left, with what few but Jon would have recognized as an unusual level of irritation. They hadn't spoken since the bombshell Stephen had dropped about Charlene. Jon still wasn't quite sure how to approach that.

"I talked to the higher-ups," he said instead. Brisk. Businesslike. "Promised there wouldn't be any lawsuits or public relations disasters because of...her. Staked my job on it, in fact."

Stephen's half-tweezed eyebrows jumped an eighth of an inch each. "Really?"

"Really." Jon folded his arms. "So as long as you're telling the truth, you should be in the clear."

"Well, good. Because I am." Stephen glared imposingly at Jon, as if daring him to suggest otherwise.

"Listen, uh, you do have a good _reason_ for pretending she's alive, right? Because if I find out this is something to do with — with the Mafia, or an illegal gambling operation, or—"

"Hey! My inconsequential gambling debts are completely and totally paid off, mostly! And the Mafia was only that one time!"

"Stephen...."

"It's a good reason," insisted Stephen, more softly now. "There are a couple of people from Chicago who know, and nobody else. It's better that way."

"Got it." Jon turned to leave, then paused when Stephen called his name.

"I meant it when I said I don't need protecting," muttered Stephen, squirming in the makeup chair like a four-year-old trying to sit still. "Because I don't. I have my own bootstraps. But...I know you've got my back. In your liberal East Coast tree-hugging latte-sipping kind of way, I mean. And I, well, I, I...you know."

Jon smiled. "Any time, my friend. Any time."

Stephen loves Chicago the instant she sets foot in it.

They had ditched the car in the bus station parking lot, paid cash, and made it across the country with no one the wiser. When they find a cheap apartment, it's dingy and tiny and Charlene thinks he hears rats in the walls, but Stephen dances right across the suspicious stains on the carpet and bursts into a snatch of Joan Jett, and Charlene joins in for the whole triumphant chorus.

He makes Stephen give him a haircut first thing. Stephen pouts the whole time, complaining that she would love to have hair this long; she's been growing hers out for a whole two weeks now, and Charlene pretends he can tell the difference.

Stephen eventually lands a job at the Hair Force. She has to dress as a guy when she's on the clock, but there's enough room for flamboyancy that she doesn't have to worry about checking her behavior to match. Besides, it lifts her soul just to be in the presence of so many gorgeously cared-for styles.

Charlene gets hired by the local marina. The uniform is unisex; the work involves a lot of heavy lifting. He acts nonchalant when Stephen remarks on the muscle he's building, and pumps his fist in the air when he thinks she isn't looking.

It's been a decade since Ziggy Stardust, but there are still plenty of clubs where androgyny is in, and they can dance as themselves without anyone batting an eye.

It's microwave dinners at the beginning of the month and economy-size bags of rice towards the end.

It's the piles of discount stuff Stephen brings home from the salon: exfoliating scrubs and shampoo that smells like flowers and enough hair gel to choke a moose. Charlene fills condoms with the gel; wrapped in layers of latex, they make a decent DIY packer until he can buy something more realistic. Stephen hoards the shampoo while she saves for a high-quality wig.

It's the night Charlene gets in front of a mic and breaks into an alto cover of Springsteen, and on the way down from the stage nearly walks into a couple of guys wielding guitars, who want to know if he's singing with anyone else.

And it's the way Stephen clings to his arm when they get home, protesting that he was _flirting_ with them, which is okay, he's allowed, but he's still _hers_ , right?

It's pulling her close and filling her ears with a whispered reassurance that Charlene turns out to need as much as Stephen does: _you'll never be alone again._

"They're a menace, Jon!"

"I don't think you have to worry that much about children, Stephen," said Jon with gentle indulgence, pushing away the headline Stephen was thrusting in his face.

"But they're out to replace us! Don't you see, we have to be vigilant!"

"It's just some two-year-old doing glorified finger paintings," pointed out Jon. "Which is basically all abstract art is in the first place. It's not like the pre-K set is going to suddenly start providing competitors for more difficult creative jobs. Like, say, television host."

"...Oh." Stephen sat down with a huff. "I knew that."

Jon hid a smile behind his fist. "Seriously, Stephen, kids aren't that bad," he continued. "I might even pick up a couple for myself one day."

"Out of wedlock? You really are a shameless heathen, aren't you."

"Well, it's not the kind of thing I would just spring on a girlfriend." _Or a boyfriend,_ he added to himself, though he didn't feel like getting into a fight with Stephen about the existence of bisexuality just then. "But if I get married...or maybe I'll just adopt. How about you? I know you grew up with a ton of siblings—"

"Jimmy, Eddie, Mary, Billy, Margo, Tommy, Jay, Lulu, Paul, Peter, and Stephen," rattled off Stephen in a single rapid-fire breath.

"Right. You ever feel the urge to start working on a hockey team of your own? Or did you decide your childhood was so messy that you never wanted to be in a house that crowded again?"

"I had a happy childhood, Jon!"

"All right, all right!" Jon held up his hands in surrender.

"But I don't want kids." Stephen sank into the chair, fingers curled sullenly around the newspaper. "And I'm perfectly fine on my own."

Stephen comes home after her shift one day, a fresh bottle of lilac-scented shampoo in her bag, to find Charlene sitting vigil in the front hall.

It takes her a moment to notice the stuffed dog in his hands.

"How?" he asks flatly.

Stephen's bag slips to the floor. "It's nothing," she stammers.

"Nothing?" repeats Charlene, turning the dog over. The fraying seam in the back has been split all the way open, revealing just how much of the stuffing has been replaced by faded bills. "You don't make this kind of cash doing nothing!"

"It's not important," insists Stephen, clenching her hands to keep them from trembling. "Char, please, I don't want to talk about—"

"What's so bad you can't talk to me about it?" cries Charlene, jumping to his feet. "Are you pushing? Selling yourself? You didn't steal it, did you?"

"No!" shouts Stephen, on the verge of tears now. "Nothing like that! I did a couple of videos, that's all!"

"Videos," echoes Charlene, this time in horror. "How _could_ you."

"I didn't do them as me!" protests Stephen. "I used a pseudonym — they thought I was a man — I had to do _something_ , Char! Do you think our day jobs and your third-rate band are going to make enough for hormones? Surgery? Maybe adoption one day?"

It's the first Charlene has heard of this particular fantasy, and he's in no mood to be indulgent. " _Adoption?_ You think they would ever let people like us have kids? Even if you weren't a _porn star_ —"

" _Damn it, I was meant to be a mother!_ " shrieks Stephen.

" _Shake it off, Col-bert!_ " counters Charlene, and slaps her across the face.

Stephen slaps back — forgetting how broad her hands are, how Charlene for all his hard-earned muscle is still slender, how easy it is for her to send him flying.

For a moment everything is frozen, Charlene sprawled on the floor, the stuffed dog spilling C-note entrails beside him.

Then Charlene hauls himself up onto his elbows, wipes the blood from his nose, and hisses, "You hit like a _boy_."

Gulping down a sob, Stephen flees.

After an insomnia-fueled search on eBay turned up three entries, none for less than $100, Jon decided maybe he didn't need a hard copy of "Charlene" after all.

With only one single, and that only ever released on vinyl, Stephen and the Colberts must have been a massive flop in its day. And now the lousy thing was a collector's item, like the Mr. Goodwrench bobblehead looking disapprovingly down at Jon from atop his looming inbox.

Why hadn't anybody thought to re-release it? Surely, faced with the potential profit of Stephen's rabid fanbase, someone could work out who owned the rights.

Unless Stephen didn't want it released.

Maybe there was some kind of royalties dispute. It wasn't as if Stephen didn't want people hearing the song, even if it brought up bad memories. How many times had the video been run on the _Report?_

Taking another probably-futile gulp of warm milk, Jon clicked absently over to YouTube, and realized once again just how much he underestimated the Colbert Nation. Not only were there about a hundred copies of "Charlene", including what looked like fan-made music videos (Jon wondered briefly how the song had anything to do with _Twilight_ , then decided he didn't want to know), there was a clip with a bright blue preview image and the title "STEVEN COLBERT - CHARLENE (B-SIDE)."

The video turned out to be a slideshow of the lyrics, against a wildly oversaturated background — Jon could practically feel his graphics team hyperventilating at the sight. The audio started off as a lone piano.

And then the vocals kicked in.

It was "Charlene". A slow, evocative, piano version of "Charlene", the lyrics spun like glass by a haunting female voice, as if Vienna Teng had fallen back in time a decade or two and decided to do a cover of an obscure synth-pop song while she was in the era.

Jon closed the window before it was halfway through.

When he finally got to sleep, the voice still stalked his dreams.

It's stammered apologies, and Stephen making up another ice pack for Charlene's bruises while she whispers that maybe he's right, maybe there's nothing in this for her, maybe she should just flee Chicago and cut her hair and repress repress repress for the rest of her life.

It's Charlene talking her down (not for the first time, or the last), swearing he didn't mean it, and promising the band will look for an actual agent. They can do this. It'll take some work, but they'll make all of this worth it. Together.

It's cash in the bank thanks to a line of work they plan to never speak of again: one more place they don't dare walk, especially in the dark.

And it's Charlene sending up a prayer of thanks to the patron saint of tragic irony for sparing them this time, while raindrops cascade past the streetlight outside their window and Stephen sleeps safely in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clips referenced: [Stephen's giant gold balloon](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/250350/september-23-2009/capitalism-s-enemy---michael-moore).

Jon had always found most Christmas carols incredibly schmaltzy, but something in his heart leapt when it was Stephen singing them. Or rather, a hefty cross-section of the _Report_ staff, crowded outside the _Daily Show_ studio, with Stephen at the front of the pack.

"So, ah, I don't know if this is your last stop," he called from the third-floor window, after the applause had died down, "but if you've got some time, we have some leftover cookies and eggnog lying around...."

"It's our last stop!" declared Stephen immediately. (One of the writers tried to protest; the others shushed her immediately. She was probably new.)

"I love your voice," remarked Jon, as he helped Stephen out of the bulky fire-engine-red coat. "...Voic _es_. The whole group, I mean."

"No, no, it's okay," Stephen assured him, cheeks flushed from the sudden temperature change. "I know my voice makes even the straightest of men go weak at the knees. You don't have to hide it, Jon."

"All right, sir," laughed Jon, not bothering to hide his smile. "What would you like? Eggnog, hot choco—whoa! Uh, you know your hands are like ice, right?"

"Forgot my gloves," said Stephen with a forced shrug. "It's nothing. I'm handling it."

"Don't be ridiculous," ordered Jon, cupping Stephen's chilled appendages in his own and pulling his friend out of the common room. "I've got one of those nifty little heating pads you stick in the microwave. It'll take thirty seconds. Come on."

A minute later Stephen was sitting on Jon's office couch, hands wrapped in a sock-shaped beanbag that radiated a steady, even warmth, with Jon's hands in turn holding it in place. Stephen's eyes were closed, lips parted slightly to form a soft _O_ , and Jon was trying not to think about how kissable that mouth was, or the way Stephen's breath was ghosting over his knuckles.

"'S nice," murmured Stephen at last.

Jon jumped. "Is it? Good! That's good."

"I don't always hate it, you know," Stephen added.

"Hm?"

"When you...take care of me."

All of a sudden the moment felt impossibly fragile, like one of the snowflakes the forecast was calling for around midnight.

What was Jon supposed to say that wouldn't have Stephen bolting again? _You know I'm not exactly the straightest of men, right? If you've been thinking about planting another impromptu kiss on me, this would be a great time. Hey, what say we stop pussyfooting around, lock that door, and get it on right here on the couch...._

And then Stephen sat bolt upright, and flashed Jon a broad grin, shrugging off his grip in the process. "Well, we'd better get back out there. Those cookies aren't going to eat themselves!"

"I really do like your voice," mumbled Jon; but Stephen was already halfway to the door, leaving Jon to tag along behind and wonder what piece of the puzzle he was missing.

"Every time I see you, I think of you!" croons Stephen, leaning against the railing of the boat and striking a pose. "Every time I'm near you, I think of you!"

"Is your hair on all right?" calls Charlene from the lower deck. He didn't spend all that time haggling up his employee discount — they have this thing for the whole day, to celebrate the band finally getting signed — just to have the wind steal Stephen's pricey new wig while they're out on the water.

Stephen blows him a kiss. "It's all under control, Char!"

"Your cousin's got a good voice," remarks Angel (drums, backup vocals), clapping Charlene on the back. "We should get her into the studio sometime."

On the upper deck, Stephen pulls out the camera Tommy (guitar, though he can handle a piano if you've got one) lent her and points it at the cityscape, at the horizon, then down at Charlene. "I think of you and I dream of you when I'm...taking pictures of you!" she improvises.

"Good voice," agrees Charlene with a grimace. "Terrible at lyrics, though."

"Aw, honey, I'm sure we can write her something better," soothes Angel.

"I think of you when I'm on a boat looking down from up above you!" warbles Stephen, then slings the camera down towards them. "Now get one of me!"

"What? No, she can't have the balloon! Okay, nobody move. I'm coming down. Stay!"

Stephen jabbed the iPhone to switch it off, slammed it down on the desk, then turned to Jon. "Gotta go avert a crisis. Stay here. I'll be back in two shakes."

Left alone in the office, Jon's eyes wandered across the various decorations. The portraits that hung along the walls were as visually rich as they were ridiculous; half of the trophies on top of the bookshelf were of Stephen's own invention, which meant they had extra wings and spears and vaguely ball-shaped attachments sticking out in unusual directions; and the shelf, while it contained few actual books, was stuffed with oddities like a lightsaber, a Statue of Liberty coin bank, and....

Was that a carton of Americone Dream? That couldn't be good. Didn't want the building to go through another ant invasion.

When he picked up the carton, though, Jon relaxed. Not only was it empty, the whole thing was coated with some kind of glaze. Just another improvised memorial to Stephen's greatness. You had to give it points for creativity, at least.

Jon put the makeshift trophy back in place, then did another double-take. In amongst the hardback copy of _I Am America_ , the paperback copy of _I Am America_ , and the audiobook copy of _I Am America_ , an almost-hidden slim black spine had caught his eye.

"Well, hello there," he murmured, easing out a record labeled "Songs for Charlene".

Stephen throws down the headphones and stalks from the studio, on the verge of tears.

The producer mutters something containing the words "prima donna" and a slur that would have earned a sock from Charlene if he hadn't been busy following his cousin. He doesn't really get worried, though, until Stephen ducks into a clearly-marked men's room.

"I can't do this, Char!" she sobs onto his shoulder, long nails digging into his back so ferociously that he can feel them through the binding. "The sound — it's all wrong—"

"You sound exactly like you always do," insists Charlene. "Why is it a problem now?"

"I couldn't _hear_ it before!" cries Stephen. "And now it's on a _tape_ , where everyone can hear — hear that I don't sound right, I'm never going to sound right, I'm never going to _be_ right, why am I even trying—"

"Don't talk like that!" hisses Charlene. He's never been able to imagine going back — the idea makes his palms sweat and his vision blur — but Stephen has always been better at that kind of pretending. "You're not a quitter, sweetness. Say it! Are you a quitter?"

"N-no," sniffles Stephen.

Charlene grabs a paper towel and thrusts it into her hands. "Good. And are you going to let me be alone?"

Stephen blows her nose on the coarse paper and dabs at her running mascara with a spare corner. "Never," she says glumly. "But — my voice — what'm I supposed to do?"

"Pretend it's mine," offers Charlene. Goodness knows he's done that enough.

"I'll try," whispers Stephen. "If — if you'll do one for me. In the girl voice."

Charlene swallows. "O-of course."

(All that, and they have to end the session early anyway; Tommy thought he could work through his fever, but it won't stop climbing.)

The back cover of the record featured a portrait of a young Stephen: overly-fluffed hair framing an impossibly smooth face, slim fingers holding a long-stemmed red rose, eyes gazing over the petals to stare down the viewer with startling intensity. _If I could only have you,_ that stare promised, _I would lock you in a tower and kill anyone who tried to touch you._

Jon shook off the uncomfortable feeling that he was intruding on something private. That face had been sold in stores, after all. Hoping for liner notes, he flipped the case over and slid the disc out.

Two scraps of paper fluttered to the floor.

When he bent to pick them up, Jon gasped. The first was a pair of side-by-side black-and-white photos, evidently clipped from a yearbook: a boy with neatly-combed hair and a familiar sweet smile, and a girl with eyes that took Jon's breath away.

Even without the names printed under the photos, the girl would have been recognizable as a product of the Brillo-pad Colbert family tree. Her smile was small but determined, her gaze the mirror image of the one on the cover, equal parts challenge and plea: _You want me? Are you sure you can handle it?_

No wonder Stephen had loved her. Jon's heart was pounding just looking at her ghost.

He tucked the clipping quickly back into the case and turned over the other, then almost laughed at the massive eighties hair, silhouetted against a shining backdrop of water and sky. There was none of the intensity of the other portraits here, just a young woman with an oversized sweatshirt and even more oversized jewelry, glowing at the camera like the star of a wholesome period sitcom.

The pile of frizzy light-brown hair, not to mention the wide grin and laughing eyes, were so different from the enigmatic beauty in the yearbook that Jon had to pull out the first set of photos again.

Even when he took into account the bleach and hairspray, though, he couldn't quite make the faces line up. The chin was too strong, maybe. Or the eyebrows, they didn't have that arch....

"Back!" exclaimed a chipper voice, and Jon whirled guiltily around to see Stephen bumping an awkward path into the room, arms wrapped halfway around an oversized gold balloon. "Can you believe one of the writers wanted to take this home to her kid? As if an eight-year-old could truly appreciate—"

Jon's expression must have said it all, because Stephen broke off mid-sentence, eyes flickering to the case in his hands.

"Jon." The balloon slipped from Stephen's palms to land, whisper-soft, on the floor. "Jon, what have you got there?"

The faces did line up. You just had to look at the right ones.

The short-haired face in the yearbook was framed with perfectly even ears; it wore a sweet smile matched by the girl on the boat with the Adam's apple. The other black-and-white portrait had ears covered by thick dark locks, but the same eyes as the androgynous rocker with the smooth face and too-slender fingers: the eyes that could always make Jon's heart skip a beat.

He looked up to meet those same eyes, this time in living color.

"You were Charlene."


	4. Chapter 4

It's the night when Charlene comes home and Stephen isn't there.

It's following the officer down a cold blue hall, and a reedy voice saying, "Ma'am, I know this is difficult for you, but I'm going to need you to identify the body, if you can."

"Sir," says Charlene automatically.

"Yes?"

"Not you," snaps Charlene, eyebrows arching impressively. "Me. I'm a sir. Not a ma'am."

The officer rolls the words around in his mouth like a small dog worrying a bone. "I don't have time to play your little games here, ma'am. A man is dead, and we have work to do. Now, are you ready to take a look?"

It's the sheet being pulled away from Stephen's ice-pale face.

It's Angel rubbing his shoulders, and Tommy, not as pale as _she_ was but not looking great either, assuring him that just because he's a boy doesn't mean he's not allowed to cry.

And it's the unreadable look in their eyes (or maybe it is readable, and he's just forgotten the language) when he smiles serenely and tells them she isn't gone. Not really.

He can hear her more clearly every day.

The horror on Jon's face reflected maybe a tenth of what Stephen felt.

_Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid, why did you have to keep that here, now it's all going to fall apart just when everything was perfect because you had to have that stupid security blanket like a scared little girl—_

Visibly fighting to look Stephen in the eye, Jon took a shuddery breath. "Stephen," he croaked, "I apologize for every time I teased you about avoiding office games of strip poker."

For the first time in years, the voice in Stephen's head was speechless.

"And all the stupid jokes I've made—!" Jon had to turn away then, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "Oh, God, I've joked about you having _PMS_. Of all the insensitive — I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot, I—"

"Enough!" interrupted Stephen.

A moment ago pity had been infinitely preferable to the inevitable life-shattering cataclysm, but now that life seemed to be continuing unshattered, the last thing he wanted was for Jon to melt into a puddle of touchy-feely liberal goo.

"I'm still the ballsiest man you know," he snapped, heart thudding painfully against the binding that surrounded it. _That's it, Col-bert. Tough. Confident. **Cocky** , dammit._ "That doesn't change just because my balls happen to be made of silicone."

At least Jon was looking at him again. "O-of course." His eyes flicked back down to the photos. "The, uh, the original Stephen. The one in the yearbook. What happened to...to that person?"

"I told you," hissed Stephen. "She died."

Once more Jon looked down at the pictures, wheels visibly turning as he did the math: erasing the makeup from one, adding a wig to the other, matching up eyebrows and cheekbones and the lips that curved into that beautiful smile.

"Oh," he breathed at last. "God, Stephen, I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. And I _don't_ want to talk about it."

"Sure," agreed Jon instantly. "Whatever you say. I — can I just ask one more question?"

 _Don't let him,_ whispered Sweetness, but without much conviction. Jon's careful touch with pronouns hadn't gone unnoticed. "Make it quick."

"Were you ever going to tell me? I mean — were we ever going to do anything that would involve me finding out?"

It was Stephen's turn to look away, folding his arms against the chill that ran along his skin.

"Ah," said Jon quietly. "Well. Nice to know, at least."

He set the cassette and its contents almost reverently on the desk, then backed away.

"You're probably not interested in dinner with me right now, either," he added. "Should I just leave you alone for a while?"

Stephen stared resolutely at his giant gold balloon. (He was not going to be unhappy. He was _not_. He had a _giant gold balloon_.)

"Right," said Jon softly. "I'll show myself out."

_Pretend it's mine,_ suggests her sweet voice in the back of his head.

He nails the soprano version on the first take.

A month later he's on T, and a few months after that Tommy's in the hospital full-time, and before _her_ case has been cooling for a year he stuffs everything in a couple of secondhand duffel bags and hops a bus heading south, scenery rolling by unnoticed out the window while he studies the changing landscape of his ever-broadening hands.

Passing gets easier every day. She's helping with that too: she left him a spare name, an unoccupied social security number, a driver's license handily printed with an M. He still looks young for his age, but the photo on her license is from a few years back, with long enough hair to hide the fact that it doesn't have his distinctly pointed ear.

He's going to do things right this time. Start in a small town, get a nice local job, work his way up — all the things he knows she wanted for him. She even picked the town, murmuring guidance in his good ear as his hand hovered over the map with a pin.

"Patterson Springs." It has a nice ring to it.

By the time Jon heard the pounding footsteps, it was too late to turn around before he was tackled from behind.

They tottered a few steps farther in a wobbly attempt not to go crashing to the floor, pelvises knocking awkwardly against each other, Stephen's arms locked around Jon's chest and his breath fluttering the hairs on the nape of Jon's neck as he panted, "Charlene, Mandy, Kevin, Lukey, Sammy, Penny, Carrie, Dean, and Beth."

Together they stumbled to a stop just short of the water cooler, Stephen's whole front flush with Jon's back, so that Jon was painfully conscious of the warmth of every inch of his body.

"I'm happy here," Stephen insisted, fingers clenching in the grey fabric over Jon's heart. "I really am. Mostly. But I can't lose this. You understand, Jon? I can't lose you too."

Jon clasped his hands over Stephen's, stroking the backs of them with his fingertips. "You don't have to."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

In spite of the flames dancing merrily in his fireplace, Stephen shivered. "I do, Jon. I want you to know about this...this part of me. I'm just maybe a little nervous, that's all."

"I understand."

"You don't!" cried Stephen. "You have no idea! I mean, maybe you feel comfortable showing off yours to anybody who walks in—"

"Hey now, that's overstating it—"

"—but I've never shown these to _anyone!_ Nobody else even knows they exist — well, except my family, but they don't know _I_ have them, they think there's still a Charlene out there who — the point is, Jon, this is very personal, all right?"

"I believe it!" exclaimed Jon.

Still curled in on himself, Stephen nodded reluctantly.

"And, yeah, maybe I can't really understand it," continued Jon, leaning back against the couch. "But I'm following your lead here, okay? Just tell me what you're comfortable with, and that's all I'll do."

The firelight flickered in Stephen's glasses as he slipped them off, finally gazing at Jon with unshielded eyes. "Scoot a little closer," he directed, beckoning with his head.

Jon slid across the soft fur rug, static crackling under his legs as he closed the distance between them.

"And no touching. You got that?"

"Yes, sir."

Stephen scrutinized his face for any hint of mockery. At last, with a soft noise of satisfaction, he opened the photo album and spread the first pages before Jon's eyes.

"That's Dean," he said softly, pointing to a boy in a stiff collar at the front of a family portrait. "Haven't seen him since he was a baby. And here's Beth," he added, voice catching as his finger rested on a tiny girl in a lace dress. "I've only ever seen her in photos...."

Stephen lost count of how many times his voice gave out on him. It was like those first months on T all over again, when it was constantly raw and hungry and he never knew if he would get through a song or even a sentence without the damn thing cracking.

Jon listened perfectly, and let Stephen lean on his shoulder without comment, except to break the longer pauses with gentle remarks about the pictures. _He's adorable. I bet she looks up to you. Oh, wow, you have your father's smile._ And he fell into solemn silence when they reached the few precious glimpses of _her_ , while Stephen gritted his teeth and paged on.

Not until he got far enough back in the album to reach the old photos of himself did Stephen slam it closed, leaning quickly against Jon to reassure him that he hadn't done anything wrong. Jon didn't pry, just rested his cheek against Stephen's hair and let the crackling of the dying fire fill the silence.

"You would have liked her," murmured Stephen at last.

He couldn't honestly say that she liked Jon, but that wasn't Jon's fault. All she wanted to do was keep Stephen safe, which she did by being suspicious of everyone.

Although, come to think of it, she hadn't objected to Jon all night.

Impulsively, Stephen pulled back and ran his tongue firmly up the side of the other man's face. _She_ still didn't say a word, although Jon himself jumped and blinked rapidly at him. "Uh, what was that?"

"Trick I picked up from her," explained Stephen briskly, tucking his head back under Jon's chin. "Lick something, and no one — even if you have ten older brothers and sisters — will try to take it away from you."

He was trying to come up with a snappy comeback to Jon's inevitable comment about how ridiculous this was, when something warm and damp flicked against his temple.

Pulling back again, he found an incredibly flustered Jon looking shiftily away. "Sorry. Probably shouldn't have..."

Before he could finish, Stephen tongued his bottom lip, and then both their mouths were occupied for a while.

Stephen's knees were drawn up to his chest, the photo album clutched in front of him like armor, but he was just starting to get lost in the kiss when Jon pushed him away. "Sorry," he repeated, more breathlessly this time. "I knew this was a bad idea. I'm sorry, Stephen, I can't keep this up — you're beautiful and I love you, but if we're never going to go any farther than this...."

"Well, not on the first date, anyway," said Stephen, with his sternest arch of the eyebrows. "Honestly, Jon, what kind of girl do you think I am?"


	5. Chapter 5

Jon had barely touched the bell when the door flew open and Stephen grabbed his hand.

"Come in!" he ordered, hauling Jon over the threshold. "Lock the door. There we go. Couch is through here. Sit down. Can I get you anything? Do you like Bud Light Lime? If you do, you're in luck. They send me a crate of the stuff every time I mention it on the show, and _I'm_ not going to drink it."

"Well, uh—"

"Bud Light Lime it is!" exclaimed Stephen, pushing him across the room before fluttering off to the kitchen.

Jon took the last few steps to the couch, and nearly sat on what he thought was a lumpy black pillow until it tilted its head and appraised him with rheumy eyes. "Ah! Sorry!"

The old dog closed his eyes, to all appearances fast asleep again. He didn't move a muscle as Jon settled carefully onto the free cushion beside him.

"Ah, good, you've met Gipper!" said Stephen brightly, returning with a pale-green bottle and a glass of ice. "He's a good dog. You keep Jon company, okay, boy? I have to go, uh, double-check that all the shades are closed."

Jon left the unopened drink on the coffee table in favor of scratching Gipper's head, especially when he discovered that it set the long black tail into a rhythm of lazy thumping. 

After a minute or so of this, he got up and went looking.

Jon hadn't gotten two steps into the hall when they nearly crashed into each other. "Ah! Sorry, didn't realize—" He caught himself. "Uh, you _were_ about to come in, right?"

"Of course, Jon!" snapped Stephen. His glasses had gone missing somewhere, and he was wringing the neck of a half-empty bottle of his own. "I was _getting_ there. Don't rush me."

"Sure, sure." Taking a half step back, Jon added, "Listen, if you're not up for this...."

He was cut off when Stephen shoved him against the wall, palms splayed across his chest, and stuck an expensive-wine-flavored tongue in his mouth.

After a moment of surprised writhing, Jon scraped together the presence of mind to tilt his head and meet Stephen's tongue with his own. His hands clawed at the air before settling on Stephen's hips, which responded by thrusting defiantly against his, while Stephen pawed at his chest with such eagerness that Jon couldn't understand why his sweatshirt was still on.

"Told you," panted Stephen hotly against Jon's cheek when at last they came up for air. "I'm up for it."

"Oh, good," gasped Jon, waggling his eyebrows in what he hoped was a passably suggestive manner. "'Cause you're not the only one."

Jon tumbled backwards onto the bed with Stephen on top of him, lips on his neck and fingers busily dispensing of his T-shirt. (The sweatshirt had been abandoned somewhere on the stairs.)

He had to hoist himself into a sitting position to let Stephen wrest the shirt over his head, and was shaking out his hair when Stephen pushed him back down. "Mine aren't coming off," he said sternly, straddling Jon's torso and running businesslike fingers through Jon's mussed curls. "Well, the sweater. And maybe the shirt. But not the undershirt."

Resting his palms on Stephen's Italian-wool-clad legs, Jon began massaging his thighs. "All right."

"It's not that I don't want to," added Stephen, the words starting to race. "But I can't. I still have the wrong parts and it _hurts_ , Jon, it hurts to be seen like that, I know you would be sweet about it because you're sweet about everything but I _can't!_ "

"Hey, hey, enough of that." Catching one of Stephen's hands, Jon untangled it from his hair and pulled it down to press a kiss to the wrist. "I said it was all right, and I meant it. I'm more worried about you — are you still going to get enough fun out of this with everything covered up?"

Stephen snorted. "If you ever paid a late-night visit to the truck stop just past exit 57 on the parkway going south, you wouldn't be asking that question."

"...Well, there you go." Jon tried to sound cheerful as he rubbed the heel of Stephen's hand with his thumb. "This should work along more or less the same lines, only with clean sheets and less venereal disease. So why all the fuss?"

"Be _cause_ , Jon — much as it pains me to say this about someone whose idea of fancy dress is wearing a plain grey shirt with long sleeves instead of short ones — you're too classy for three-A.M. truck-stop-style sex!"

In the dark, Jon broke into a smile. "You love me, don't you?"

Stephen caught his breath. "D-didn't say that."

Rather than pressing further, Jon slid his palms up Stephen's sleeves, cupped the back of the other man's neck, and drew him down into a gentle, if awkwardly posed, kiss.

Stephen moaned as Jon continued pressing kisses to his jaw and neck, wriggling against Jon's bare stomach in a way that would have tickled if it hadn't been so tantalizing, soft plastic dick and all. Jon's heels dug into the sheets as he drew his knees up towards Stephen's back, thrusting for some much-needed friction on his own still-clothed erection; Stephen groaned more heartily, then broke off with an indignant squeak.

"You okay?" asked Jon quickly, as Stephen rolled onto the mattress and fumbled with fistfuls of his sweater.

"Fine," panted Stephen. "It's just — it got twisted, it pinches, it — Jon?"

"Yeah?"

Except for the rise and fall of his shoulders, Stephen had gone very still. "Turn over."

Jon rolled until he was on his side, facing the wall. No way was he going to pull off lying on his stomach at this point.

"And don't look," added Stephen. "Promise you won't look."

"I promise," echoed Jon. He didn't even complain when Stephen shoved a pillow over his head anyway.

Had there been championships for stripping, Stephen could have taken home the gold. Jon knew he was wearing at least three layers of clothing, but it took less than a minute of rustling fabric, including pauses to stretch and breathe, before the other side of the mattress creaked as he flopped back down beside Jon and brushed up to his back.

Jon let out a groan of anticipation as Stephen's tongue raked up his spine. "Ohhh. Welcome back."

" _Mine_ ," whispered Stephen, nibbling on his ear while arching cautiously against him. There was still a layer of cloth between Jon's shoulder blades and the swell of Stephen's chest, but it was a bare arm that wrapped around Jon's body and roamed downward. "Is this okay?"

"Fine," gasped Jon at the long-awaited undoing of his much-too-tight khakis. "Better than fine. It's — ooh. Uh. What was—?"

Stephen slipped into his sternest Newsman Voice. "That's called an _erection_ , Jon," he announced, grinding once more against Jon's pelvis to drive the point home (as it were). "You run into them during gay sex. Try to keep up."

Jon's answering laugh turned into a squeak. Words seemed to be failing him; all he could manage was a ragged chant of Stephen's name, in time with the rhythm of the other man's pumping fist and thrusting hips.

At first Stephen was whispering something in his ear, but that soon trailed off in favor of mouthing Jon's neck, kissing and licking and running his teeth over the tender skin, until Jon's vision whited out with Stephen's name tearing itself from his throat.

As Jon came down, Stephen's hand moved to clutch at his chest. His mouth had gone still now, head pressed fiercely against Jon's neck, every ounce of energy poured into being wrapped around Jon as tightly as possible while his hips quickened their pace.

"Stephen—" stammered Jon, the sheets making a paltry substitute for Stephen's soft skin under his fingers. "Let me — do something for you — anything—"

" _Love me_ ," pleaded Stephen.

Before Jon could answer, Stephen's whole body shuddered, and with a cry he collapsed around Jon: limp as a popped balloon, if quite a bit heavier.

Tentatively, Jon cupped a hand over Stephen's, and was relieved when Stephen's trembling fingers laced through his.

"Love you," he whispered. "So much."

A sunbeam right across Stephen's eyes woke him up.

He started to stretch, then nearly jumped out of his skin (if only!) when he realized he wasn't alone. The mattress creaked with his startled bounce, rousing the man beside him, who stirred and blinked around the room in confusion. "Hnh?"

"Morning, Jon," breathed Stephen.

Jon squinted over at him, then broke into a sleepy smile. "You're wearing my shirt."

Instinctively Stephen crumpled the blanket over his chest, though he could only feel Jon's eyes running over the grey fabric, not stripping it off. "Grabbed the wrong one last night," he muttered.

"Mm." Jon closed his eyes again, still smiling.

_I like him._

The thought drifted by so quietly that at first Stephen thought it was his own. A second later he sat bolt upright. "What's that, Sweetness?"

At the name, Jon too snapped awake. "Stephen! Where's the gun?"

"Oh, Jon, she was never the _gun!_ " The blanket slid down into Stephen's lap as he scrambled forward. "Sweetness, please — I didn't catch that, please, say it again—"

Silence. Silence so profound that it seemed to eclipse the birdsong outside.

"You promised!" he shouted into the empty air. "You promised you wouldn't leave me alone!"

"She's dead, Stephen!"

Stephen turned so abruptly that the extra movement sent a chill through his skin. He finally made a grab for the blanket, and why wasn't she scolding him for taking so long?

"I'm sorry," added Jon softly. "She's been dead for a long time now."

"Shut up!" Stephen hunched into a protective ball, wrapping his arms around his chest. "You don't know anything about it!"

Jon's eyes glittered with one of those stupid unreadable expressions: more than sorrow, not quite pity, tinged with something too complicated to name.

"I know she loved you," he said. "I know you'll always love her, and no matter what happens, you're always going to miss her. And I know that nothing will ever replace what you two had."

Stephen blinked rapidly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"I also know that I love you," continued Jon after a beat. "And that if you want it — if you'll let me — I'll make sure you never have to be alone again."

He fell silent, waiting.

Outside the sun shone brighter than ever, and the birds began to sing.

And when Jon held open his arms, it suddenly seemed the easiest thing in the world for Stephen to fall into them, to nuzzle the other man's chest in an attempt to return the hug without actually letting go of himself, while Jon pulled him close and rubbed his shoulders and whispered soothing reassurances in his ear: _Shh. It's okay. I love you._

_I've got you._

It's checking his new mustache in the mirror one last time, just to enjoy how it looks when smoothed by his broader and rougher hands, before catching the bus downtown to the audition.

He signs in as _Stephen Colbert_ and steps in front of the camera.

A week later he has the job, and a week after that WPTS News 7 at Noon gets a letter from his cousin Margo, who misses her long-lost baby brother. His first reply is brief. It won't be the last.

Stage presence doesn't translate into screen presence; his delivery is wooden at first, his relationship with the camera wide-eyed and standoffish. He knows there's an audience out there, but he hasn't figured out how to work them when he can't see them.

He'll get better.


End file.
